No Ransom to be Paid
by Morghaine
Summary: Virginia Weasley's life takes a downward turn and there is no-one to pick up the pieces. (Warning: Heavy Angst. Please Read the Author's Notes.)


**No Ransom to be Paid**

**Disclaimer**: Everything HP belongs to JK Rowling. In no way do I represent myself to be the owner of these characters. I merely manipulate them like puppets for my own diversion. The words to the song belong to 'Les Miserables'.

**Warnings**: No graphic sex in this one. Rating applies to non-graphic representation of consensual but coerced oral sex, blackmail and suicide. Character Death. Angst. Unflattering characterisation.

**Author's Notes**: This one is angsty and sad. Not a happy fic. Inspiration came in equal parts from 'Les Miserables' and 'Madam Butterfly' with a healthy dose of my own morbidity to help it all along its way.

**Dedication**: To Armand, yet again. This is not the Ginny/Draco I promised you, but it will do until I can finish the other one.

* * *

_'He slept a summer by my side.' _

I remember the first time I heard those words sung by an almost ethereal soprano. It was a beautiful, heartrending tune of loss and despair which, at the time, seemed to sum up my life perfectly. It was part of a musical, a lavish production that, in another life I should have seen with him, sitting high in the family's private box at some stately theatre. But instead, I saw most of the musical from a seat at Albert Hall, sitting next to a man I'd never met, and with luck would never meet again.

His name was Roger, or Randolph, or something like that. I don't really remember, and it isn't important. He wanted me to call him sweetheart, or darling, or one of another dozen or so nauseating pet names. All part of the brief. He had a girlfriend, or a wife or something, but she was stuck in another time and place, and was unable to attend the all important first meeting with his new employers. So he'd called the agency, looking for someone pretty, five foot five and with red hair. It didn't seem to matter beyond that, because they wouldn't remember me in the darkness of the theatre.

The amount he was offering hardly covered the cost of the babysitter, but he was including dinner and the show, so I'd put on my one formal dress, kissed my precious baby goodnight and sailed off to the theatre, ignoring the feeling that this was my job and pretending I really was the cherished girlfriend of the successful executive. 

The dinner was superb, and all those times with Draco had left me in good stead to hold up my end of a conversation. But all that paled in comparison to the production. From the opening moments with the prisoners, to the almost otherworldly voice of a superb soprano, I was captivated, the only thing holding me on this Earth was the feeling of his hand wrapped around mine in a hollow mockery of affection.

It's odd really. Through that whole night, the dinner, the theatre, the fragile flute of champagne at intermission, only three things really stick in my mind. The despair of that beautiful woman, her life ruined by a man who loved her and left her; the moment just before the end of the show when Roger or Randolph or whatever decided that this wouldn't just be about business and that a back seat in a darkened theatre was a perfect place for a blowjob; and the fact that I never found out if the tragic figure ever managed to find her lover, lost as I was in a parody of love myself. I always had the feeling that none of those things really mattered, and that an unhappy ending was rather the point.

The impact of the performance hadn't really hit fully upon me until I got home. I'd paid the babysitter the small fortune she demanded. It wasn't easy to find a Wizarding babysitter, and my son is just as precocious as his father. I'd wandered in to kiss my sleeping child goodnight, smiling indulgently at the small, threadbare teddy under his arm.

Then I'd wandered into the bathroom, humming one of the tunes to myself. Standing safely in the small, dingy bathroom of the tiny flat, silencing charm set so as not to wake my child with the sound that filters through the paper thin walls, bathrobe loose around me and makeup smeared from a few frantic moments of water and tissue, the full impact of the performance had hit me like the force of a thousand curses and I'd curled upon the cracked tiles and wept for a life long lost.

But that had been months ago, and my young child is growing still older, bigger and wiser. He asks so many questions now. Why he doesn't have a father like Johnny down the road. Why I won't let him show his friends that he can perform magic. Why he doesn't have the same hair colour as I do. That one makes my heart ache more than the rest. I want to tell him that he shares not the unruly, flaming red of my hair and my mottled, freckled skin, but the crisp, clean platinum blond hair and creamy smooth skin of his father, but I don't have the words to answer the questions that would bring.

And now it seems that I have no need. 

I sit on the edge of his tiny bed, holding the papers stiffly on my lap. Reams of paper, all the evidence needed to steal my life away. It had never occurred to me before, when that summer was over and autumn came to take my Draco back to his 'real' life, amid his protestations of holiday romance and his denial of love and faithfulness. Oh, he had a life, and a job and an arranged marriage to attend to; I was merely an enjoyable diversion between school and the real world. Even when I told him of the child I carried, he merely said I was a foolish child, and that he knew a potion maker that could help me. I'd like to think I slapped his face and walked out of his life forever, but through the haze of memory I seem to remember throwing myself at his feet and begging him to stay.

I left school and my home before the term started on my final year. Fled to the city to have my child in shame. And in that Muggle hospital, without family or friend to help me, I was asked by the kindly but uncaring nurses, "Dear, who is the father? For the birth certificate. Do you know, love?"

In a moment of searing pain and unfortunate weakness, I had told the truth. And the birth certificate of my newly born child bore the name, 'James Malfoy' I've always prided myself on that brief moment of clarity amidst the swirling of pain and hormones. James, the name so dear to the one I should have been with, the one who should have been this child's father. But Harry had been gone, and I had sought comfort in cold arms, and paid an enormous price.

I had told my family of their newest relation, sent every one an owl that I could think of, and nothing. Not one reply, not one wish of good luck. So, I picked up my tattered dignity and my beautiful son, and marched into the autumn, hoping that winter wouldn't follow.

But the change of seasons in inevitable, as was the change to my life. I was, like so many before me, an undereducated single mother, struggling to raise a child with no help and no idea of what I should be doing. And no money. So I did what I had to do. Sold myself on the street to ensure food and heat for my child. I graduated quickly from the cold and dangerous streets to sophisticated escort agencies, but the work was the same. And at home, the perfect face of my child made it all worth while.

Until six months ago, when my child turned five years old. I received two letters that cold and blustery day. The first one was official. The Department of Child Services at the Ministry of Magic. They had received an official complaint that a magical child was being neglected and abused. The second was on parchment I recognised all too clearly. Malfoy. My heart had beaten quicker for a few moments, foolishly thinking that he wanted me, us back. But it wasn't from the father of my child, but the grandfather. Lucius. 

When I read his letter of offering I was almost sick. It was pretty obvious who had made the complaint. He had discovered, somehow, about my precious James, and was outraged that I had birthed a Malfoy heir, albeit a bastard one, without informing him. And now the Malfoy heir was being recalled. Apparently the purchased bride my Draco had abandoned me for had yet to produce a child in over three years of marriage. This was a concern, and the Malfoys wanted to secure their line by bringing the missing child into the fold.

Oh, the offer was a generous one. A thousand galleons for my flesh and blood. But I wasn't to think about the money, I was to dwell instead upon the opportunity my child would have. Money and privilege could open a lot of doors, and I could barely afford to send my son to school when the time came. But it wasn't really an offer. An offer implies an alternative, and this was sorely lacking one. If I chose not to accept the offer, the Malfoys would pursue the matter through the Wizarding Tribunal and, in all probability; they would be awarded the boy anyway.

I wrote back immediately, expressing my disgust that they would attempt this and vowing to fight to my last breath to keep my son. Their retaliation was not what I expected. Rather than an official letter from the Ministry informing me of the date of my appointment with a case manager, I received a large package from the Malfoys' barrister. Inside were thousands of photographs, taken over six years, starting with an innocent kiss to Harry before the final battle, the two months of fiery passion with Draco, through the lonely months walking the streets, to my last 'appointment' in a large hotel. They even had a photograph of me, on my knees squashed behind the rows of chairs in Albert Hall, a glazed, bored expression on my face as I gave oral sex to my 'client'; as I sucked the cock of Roger, or Randolph, or whatever, into my mouth. The Malfoys had been following me for years, watching my every move, biding their time until it would become useful to have me toe the line. I'd always suspected they knew about Draco and me, but he always denied it, making me sneak around and keep it quiet. Seems I was right and he was wrong. Small victory really.

I knew what the package of photographs was. Blackmail. This would go to the Ministry if I chose to fight. And one day, this would be shown to my son if ever he asked about me. That thought did make me sick. There were some things a boy shouldn't see of his mother, and her giving head to anonymous strangers in theatres was certainly one of those things. So I replied. Told them that I couldn't fight. That I didn't have the resources to stop them from taking him. But I wouldn't even whimper, if I had the negatives of the photographs and the signed declaration of Lucius that they would never allow my son to see them. I sent that letter on the wing of a Malfoy owl and cried for hours.

One week later I sat my precious child down and tried to explain. Mummy had to go away, but Daddy was going to come and look after him, and he'd have a new mummy, and grandparents and lots of toys and friends and family. I tried to explain that everything would be alright, all the time my heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces.

Then early this morning they came. Draco himself stood in my tiny kitchen, clasping a cup of tea and looking down his nose at the worn couch and stained carpet. And the wife. I vaguely remember her from school, but to be fair, she looked as uncomfortable as she should have. But I didn't want her sympathy and apologetic smile, like she understood what this was doing to me. She couldn't understand. She'd never understand.

James had been thrilled to meet them; he'd hardly slept last night. His excitement both eased my fears and crushed my hopes. Part of me hoped that he'd make a smooth and painless transition and the other part hoped that he'd scream and cry for me to come back to him. I still don't know which I hope for.

And now they're gone. Taking my child, no, their child back to his vast new room and lovely, doting family. Leaving me here with nothing but a small, threadbare teddy, a piece of parchment and a large kitchen knife.

It is late, which is the only reason I do this now. James will be in bed, tossing fitfully and crying out. Not for me. Not for mummy. For teddy. A boy can't sleep without his teddy bear. And a good father will be coming back any moment to collect it. Apparating into my living room again with his cold condescension and vapid smile. 

I am not ashamed. I did what I did for my son. I had no other reason. I have no family or friends willing to acknowledge me. I have no prospect of a job not spent on my knees or back. I have no future without my James. He is everything. I lived the last six years in order to ensure my son's safety and future. And now my job is done, his future and safety is assured, in the arms of a family that will cherish him and call him son.

And I am no longer needed. I have handed over my life to the man I loved, and now I hand myself over to the cold embrace of death. But as the knife slides almost effortlessly between my ribs, angling with magical precision toward my heart, the lines of the song come back to me all at once, 

_'He slept a summer by my side_

_He filled my days with endless wonder_

_He took my childhood in his stride_

_But he was gone when autumn came' _

The knife hits home and the pain washes over me. I drop the teddy and the parchment, a simply goodbye letter to my James that I hope Draco will one day be man enough to give him, and sag back on the bed, blood running down my body. With my last thought I wonder if life could have been different. If my summer could have been spent another way, then perhaps my winter may not have come so soon. But as my life drifts from my grasp, I get the feeling that none of those things really mattered, and that, for me, an unhappy ending was rather the point.

_~fin._


End file.
